Bits of life / Musings / Poems

Pink balloons.

What happened in Manchester was unthinkable. I can only imagine the horror this community, the families, are going through. My thoughts are with them.

My heart does not yet know how to process this and other strange happenings around the world, except to know it never makes sense. And, in every case, it is my own children’s faces I see superimposed onto those of the victims who are so young, so full of hope, so new.

I wrote this as a first reaction to the Manchester bombing. Please forgive me my imperfect words.

I wish you love and light.


Pink balloons

Pink was once a favourite colour;
balloons, a party favour.
The two combined now represent
a vista opening at the world
prematurely to behold
life as it is:
its terrible beauty and glorious sins;
the inanity of what we love and despise;
the insanity in trying to rationalise it all
while, before our eyes, the embers
grow up to be bonfires
(and I thought that “bon” described a “good”).
No good in this collective sigh. Children’s cries
mark the change in the skies, this charm
of a thoughtless something pure,
innocence taken and released,
these pink balloons will ever be
for me a symbol
of perfect
waste.

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